


Write Me Your Tragedy

by Bondmaiden



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Alternate Universe - Prostitute and Novelist, Eventual Romance, M/M, Novelist Mayuzumi, Prostitute Kuroko, Psychological Drama, Rating May Change
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-19
Updated: 2015-12-24
Packaged: 2018-03-18 13:57:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3572189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bondmaiden/pseuds/Bondmaiden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Self-published novelist Chihiro writes books for a living, with help from his friends Sakurai and Momoi. But nobody ever told him this is the quickest route to his self-destruction.<br/></p><blockquote>
  <p> <i>But the obi. It is tied at the front. At seven, Mother had told him why: So they’d lay easier on their backs. Mayuzumi Chihiro’s first customer had been a curious little thing; a prostitute with blue eyes and bluer hair.</i><br/></p>
</blockquote>
            </blockquote>





	1. Everything is Beautiful

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was written for BPS Rarepair Battle for MayuKuro, since I quite liked the idea of a casual novelist Mayuzumi selling his self-published books by the roadside. Eventually, more characters will be introduced as the story progresses, and pairings may change. Chapter 4 is in the works, about 60% done. :'D Hope you enjoy reading this!

Chihiro’s first customer had been a curious little thing with blue eyes.

“That book,” he says, voice heavy enough to distinguish himself as a man and not a woman, “I’m interested in it. May I please look through the contents?”

Chihiro’s first customer is a weedy thing reminiscent of a child parading his mother’s clothes. Under Tokyo’s striking sunlight, Chihiro barely fathoms how the man doesn’t melt, even in all his dolled-up glory. So heavy are his robes until he sags with every step taken in those torturous platform geta. Shoulders bent in an unhealthy slouch. Neck straining with the weight of corals and jades stabbed into his meticulously waxed hairdo. Spring invites itself onto his kimono with impressive medleys of embroidered cranes. They take flight over his front, with their great wings spilling over his swinging sleeves.  

But the obi.

“I’m sorry, are you listening?”

It is tied at the front.

“Excuse me?”

At seven, Mother had told him why: So they’d lay easier on their backs. 

“… excuse me?”

Mayuzumi Chihiro’s first customer had been a curious little thing; a prostitute with blue eyes and bluer hair.

* * *

There they are, just a vendor and a half-bent prostitute conducting an innocent transaction by the dusty curb. No red lanterns overseer the process, no seedy alleyways reeking of alcohol whatsoever. Still, passersby ogle the pair because of — well, the general oddity of the situation is too ludicrous since what are the odds? 

Little to none, surely.

Chihiro sits on an upturned crate while his goods lay on a patchwork mess of cloths. Satsuki had sewn it for him from the tatters of her old kimonos, and Sakurai double-stitched them to ensure everything stays in place.  _It’s our combined good luck charm_ , they said as they pushed it into his hands,  _so you’ll have steady business_. 

The sentiment is richer than the truth. So Chihiro folds and holds it close to his heart. For a month and a half, the magical charm lost its properties and invited the opposite of what it should be. Villagers saunter past to sneer at his makeshift shop, and giggling girleens poked fun at his threadbound covers. Chihiro knows them well. They think they know better than the rest of the world. Judgmental fools; always quick to pass on their verdict. 

But today is different. 

The prostitute — Chihiro finds no better word to describe his customer better than his truest nature — inspects his goods thoughtfully, fishing through one copy after another. In his hands, he flips through pages as white as his fingers, all the while humming to himself. Sometimes his brows furrow at some passages, and sometimes his eyes crinkle in delight. Undoubtedly amused, Chihiro thinks, from his ingenious and quirky storyline others have failed to appreciate.

It only takes a heartbeat for him to decide his Sunday purchase. Chihiro is all too smug when he spots the prostitute’s hand, white wrist and whiter arms, dart promisingly into his sleeve to withdraw a few coins.  _Finally_ , a paying customer.

“You’re a new writer?” the prostitute begins a conversation as he drops the coins onto Chihiro’s outstretched palm.

The softness of the man’s fingertips almost surprised Chihiro.  _Almost._  He rattles them in his hand and counts the sounds — one, two, and ah, that’s a five — before pocketing them. “Yeah. Figured there’s much to be said about the world, so why not do something about it?”

To his bemusement, the prostitute smiles. His lips are the richest colour of  _sin_. “Satire isn’t usually my favourite genre, but your witty prose had me reading more.”

It is the first time anyone other than his partners leaving him feedback. Satsuki had been a little more concerned about the tone in his text, calling them too blunt and too dry; Sakurai remained positive and kept up a string of encouragements for him. Satirical jokes and self-published novelist often don’t go hand in hand with each other, and they all know it.

With the prostitute, Chihiro can’t tell which he is aiming for. Mockery? If he thinks it’s like giving to charity by purchasing Chihiro’s books, then he has the wrong idea. Honesty? What honesty is a prostitute capable of? They cheat, they lie, they scam their way to the top. They flirt, they drink, they fuck to get to where they want. Chihiro  _knows._

Still, a customer is a customer. And Chihiro prefers having one than none.

“Thanks, I guess.” He nods at the smaller man, a noncommittal gesture. “Hope you enjoy that one. Took me a while to write it.”

“It looks promising.” The prostitute sounds self-assured, with his dimpled smile and long gaze. His eyes fall onto the cover, takes in Sakurai’s slender calligraphy of a woman and her silken sleeves, and smiles to himself. “I’ll be reading it tonight, surely.”

 _Don’t you have other things to do at night_ , Chihiro wants to say, yet he is struck by the stupidity of his question.  _Of course he does. He’s a prostitute. He rakes in more cash than what you gathered in your lifetime. If he wants to be reading satirical novels while sucking cocks, that’s his business. None of yours._

Chihiro would have waved him along, but the prostitute actually  _bows_  to him as he takes his leave. In a flurry of sleeves, he’s off down the streets again, tottering daintily in his too-high geta and too-majestic ensemble. 

Left and right children gasp in awe, admiration spiking high to the skies. Their whiny voices screeched desires of wanting to be like him — only to be shot down by appalled mothers, who juggle the task of dragging away their children and pinching their husband for ogling. 

Still, the prostitute carries himself highly. He remains a statuesque symbol of sex and status for those who can pay a pretty yen for him. It is an image he parades around town, stepping carefully so as to not smash it. A dignified prostitute, if Chihiro has ever seen one.

When his blue-eyed customer finally disappears from sight, Chihiro releases a breath he didn’t know he is holding.

And so the day continues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! :D


	2. Loveless Noughts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks a lot for the rich feedback on this! :'D I'm really glad there's much love for MayuKuro fics since the pairing is rather rare. Here's the next chapter, and it's a bit short but I'm aiming for each chapter at the beginning to be short before it starts giving way to the plot~

Another fruitless Sunday, Chihiro gathers.

Everywhere he looks, passersby kick up dust over his perused novels. His temporary audience includes a gang of measly children cooing over Sakurai’s artwork on the cover, but then they’re off again as soon as something else more interesting than words appeared. Adults are, sadly, no better than them. Frequenting teahouses and card games, drinking sake and slobbering nonsense to pass their Sunday indolently. Heydays shaped men into beasts; narrow-minded beasts.

Nobody’s interested in novels. Nobody’s interested in getting to know the grey-haired man sitting by the curb, in his loose black hakama and a straw hat. Nobody’s interested in his goods; novels with vocabulary wider than the skies, spitting insults in ways they couldn’t comprehend. Most of them can’t read past hiragana anyway, what more the complex usage of kanji, so why bother.

What do they care about the world? Everyone’s a dog fending for itself, and nobody’s got the time to feed the strays whatever scraps they have. Even saints and priests don’t do that anymore. Live on your own, and die on your own. Dig your own grave to spare them the trouble if you can. That’s the essence of who they truly are within.

Still, Chihiro pulls his haori closer and remains seated. His knees ached, but it could be mended with a stretch or two. And if he needs to freshen his eyesight, there are always swanlike geishas sending off their customers in those teahouses over the river. A little heat exhaustion is better than a pocket full of lint.

It’s another fruitless Sunday, and Chihiro knows this well.

* * *

Except, it isn’t a fruitless Sunday when Chihiro catches a whiff of perfume.

Camelia fragrances the air, announcing someone’s arrival before its physical manifestation. Musical jingling of hairpins and bracelets pierce the market clamor, the heavy drag of feet scraping on gravel. The prostitute is here again to save Chihiro’s Sunday in his best kimono, an elaborate four-piece with its sash to the front. Magnificent gold threads built the peonies on a sea of slippery silk, and Chihiro mulls over its price tag. A liver and an arm, he presumes.

Stopping by Chihiro’s makeshift stall, the blue-eyed prostitute bends his knees as means of greeting. Chihiro understands why; he can’t bow without having all those jades tumbling from his hair. Still, the sunlight catches his heavily-lidded eyes when he gazes at Chihiro. “Good afternoon, novelist.”

Novelist, Chihiro snorts, unenthused. It would’ve sounded like an insult if it weren’t for the genuine honesty in his voice. Or at least, Chihiro thinks of it no more than genuine; it saves him the entire oncoming headache from trying to figure it out. “Hey.”

Standing in his platform geta, the prostitute is a figure too tall for poor old squatting Chihiro. To spare himself a crick in the neck from craning skywards, he dusts his knees and drags himself to his feet, putting them in fair range of one another. Up close, the prostitute is indeed just another weedy creature. His lily neck supports a head too big, on shoulders too small. Thick makeup masterfully masks the dark circles ringing his eyes. Chapped lips painted with all the sins of his wrongdoings.

He looks lovely. He looks lost. He looks at Chihiro, too close.

“I’ve read The Clockwork,” says the prostitute — this is where Chihiro considers making a politer nickname for his customer. “It was humorous. I quite liked the bit where you gave a firm critique concerning our society through the voice of Kaguya.”

And this is where Chihiro should be paying attention to what the prostitute is saying, instead of memorising the details of his dewy face in hopes of immortalising them on paper. Instead, all he feels is the heat in his cheeks and blames it on the damn sun. “Uh, yeah.”

“But the tragic ending caught me off guard.” The prostitute presses his lips together, appearing deep in thought. A frown doesn’t suit him, yet he wears it with every inch of resplendence Chihiro believes a prostitute couldn’t muster. “I can’t say I hadn’t seen her death coming, since it fitted the gritty tone you were aiming for. Though, it left me bitter when no one showed up at her funeral. She didn’t deserve to be treated as such.”

For a prostitute, his agile tongue wields a wide vocabulary. “Realistically speaking, if you have someone as outspoken as Kaguya in your village, I’m pretty sure the village headman would’ve had her stoned to death. It can happen to anyone.” To you, Chihiro thinks, but he swallows the words down his throat no sooner than that.

The prostitute tips his head, thoughtful. The broken movement reminds Chihiro of when he accidentally cracks his mother’s hina doll. Just a snap, and the head cleanly detaches from the neck in his hands.

And Chihiro lowers his eyes. With just a snap, he could easily detach the prostitute’s head from his neck. In his hands.

Oblivious to Chihiro’s thoughts, the prostitute’s fingers come to rest on his chin, regarding Chihiro’s collection with close interest.

“You’re right.” Here, he gazes at Chihiro pointedly under blue-tipped lashes, fluttering them once. The sensual movement must’ve been trained to be fluid, to be an inherent part of him at all times, to seduce men at their weakest. Men like Chihiro. “Though, my keeper would undoubtedly argue with your reasoning. He’s a little aggressive when it comes to things like this. He believes I’m looking too deeply into a book that isn’t even published by an acclaimed writer.”

The insult knocks some sense into Chihiro’s mind. “Your keeper has a bone to pick with me?”

"He has a sharp tongue when it comes to reviewing various literature works," says the prostitute, shaking his head softly. Raw emotion seizes his eyes, leaving him a miserable beauty biting his lip. "Always been like that, with no hopes of changing him whatsoever. Please pay no mind to his critique. Often, our views conflict one another."

"Well, whatever. It’s not like I know the guy anyway." There’ll always be insults, there’ll always be people thinking they’re a step higher than everyone else. As long as the prostitute keeps coming back to him, he’ll manage. Putting personal vehemence aside, Chihiro tucks his hands into his long sleeves. "So, what are you here for today?"

His question lights a grateful smile on the prostitute’s face. Outstretching a hand, exposing his white wrist, his fingers curl into his palm. It rattles with coins.

"I’d like to read another one of your books, novelist."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **#3:** _That works. The prostitute looks up at him again, with his blue eyes rimmed red, creasing his painted eyebrows. It’s a shame he was born a male; with a smile like that, he could’ve lived the life of a village sweetheart somewhere in the country._  
>  _“What books do you have in store today?” asks the prostitute — man, Chihiro corrects himself, for the sake of being politer to his customers. “Any sequels to the ones I’ve read, perhaps?”_
> 
> Thanks for reading this far!   
> 


	3. The Black Flower

Someone had asked him before: “What are you planning to achieve with this, Chihiro?”

To which Chihiro dully replied, “I’m writing for my own pleasure, so I’m not trying to achieve anything, unlike you. If someone relates to it, then good for them. If not,” he shrugged, “nothing’s going to change. I’ll still carry on writing.”

It was a conversation held at one of the most luxurious teahouses overlooking the river. Wisterias were in blossom then, their bruise-like blossoms swaying from the branches in tandem with the breeze. They reminded Chihiro of death; as morbid as it was, his sick fascination never washed away. Swaying, _swaying_ in the air, the flowering nooses shed their purple petals over a carpet of red hair. Was it a premonition of what was to come? 

Chihiro wasn’t superstitious. Things like this didn’t scare him. So why was his heart thudding?

His partner picked one out of his tea, staring at the winged tip. Against a background of crimson and gold, the petal is a weak colour consumed by the avaricious red. “I see. So you are content where you are?”

“More than content, actually.” He was quick to point out. Keeping his hands in his sleeves for it was still early spring and the biting chill of winter had barely lifted out of Tokyo, Chihiro gazed upon the lazily streaming river. Refracted sunlight glows silver in the waters. “I’m not exactly leading the ideal life here, but I know what I want to do. I want to write.”

“I am sure you will not succeed in the long run,” came the judgment.

One of Chihiro’s brows shot up. “Did I ask for your opinion? I thought I just came for tea since you’re paying.”

A dismissive click of his tongue. “Be rest assured my concern for your detrimental lifestyle will not last long. If you are not interested in serving under me in a business venture, then I will inform Reo. He was considerate enough to remember your existence.”

“He should’ve forgotten about me, at least I would’ve been spared from seeing you,” Chihiro retorted. 

“I see,” said the man simply, indifferent to the insult. There was no amusement on his face, but then again, there was no resentment either. He was an indecipherable text as always. “We never got along well, did we?”

Chihiro grimaced and emptied his cup of tea. He set it down so sharply it cracked. “Never planned to, Aka—”

* * *

Satsuki had been more than thrilled with Chihiro’s weekly exploits. According to her, selling even one volume weekly will surely amount to his success in the future. Sakurai celebrates his triumph by making him a bento before he leaves, cloth-wrapped and ready to be taken along. They wave him off in unison; he nods at them and sets off on the same route he travels weekly to get to the Tokyo central. With the same patchwork folded and tucked near his heart, with the same unsold books piled atop a bento.

Children scatter about as he walks past wiry-haired men in their darned yukata and rope-mended geta. He hears gossip bits from the bystanders, chattering offhandedly about the rising price of goods in marketplaces. Stifling grease lies heavy in the air, wafting from the many open kitchens on the road. Someone somewhere is making tempura for lunch. Every few seconds, laughter erupts from one of the many shacks converted into second-rate love nests; chock full of paunchy men and underage girls in caking makeup, playing their flower cards and chugging sake in broad daylight. 

As far as the eyes could see, a sea of desperation lies in wait. And he walks among them. Moral standards be damned; as long as you get a spoonful of rice in your mouth, that is your victory for the day. Chihiro knows. His mother had taught him well. 

The narrow alley breaks into an open street, one where the air is fresher than stale sweat and dried cum. Peddlers with their pine-weaved baskets roam about, shoving their goods to prospective customers. Chihiro turns down his straw hat and presses on, heading further uphill. He plans on keeping his eyes to himself, but damn his good hearing – there is a familiar scrape of heavy platforms and camellias fragranced the air and awed gasps coming from bystanders and— 

—there, the prostitute materialises again. 

A paper doll he is, weak white swathed in a robe of red, he steadily climbs uphill with his head held high. His charm magnetises onlookers, bewitching them to stand aside and permitting him entry. Many scatter to the edges simply to gaze at his opulent parade, and Chihiro would've joined them too if he weren't trying to get to the plaza on time. 

He tries to overtake the tottering man, but it is news to him that prostitutes have sharp eyes. Very sharp eyes to look underneath his hat.

"Good afternoon to you, novelist."

A customer is a customer, and despite customer service not being Chihiro's profession, there is a strict need for maintaining close relationship with them. What more, the prostitute is his sole buyer. Fan, maybe in the future. So Chihiro stops and turns on his heels to regard him in the middle of the street. Up close, the prostitute remains resplendent, even as a vision in red. 

"Afternoon," Chihiro replies. 

The prostitute takes in the scene of him with his books and aptly summarises the situation. "Going to set up your shop, I see."

"Was a bit late," Chihiro admits, rubbing the back of his head, where sweat begins to dampen his clothes. By god, is it just him or is it just terribly warm out here? "One of my friends cooked for me so I had to wait until he was done."

The prostitute raises his sleeve to his lips in a mysterious gesture that leaves Chihiro wondering. Before he knows, they've both started walking along the road once more, with Chihiro consciously lowering his speed to the prostitute's ambling gait. "I left my room early to clear up my mind with a little walk around town. I didn't expect to meet you halfway."

How exactly is he supposed to reply to that? Are there protocols outlining the expected conversation that may take place between man and a prostitute? Decent conversations not held between sake cups and lit incenses? Coming up with blanks, Chihiro supposes he can grunt and get away with it. 

That works. The prostitute looks up at him again, with his blue eyes rimmed red, creasing his painted eyebrows. It's a shame he was born a male; with a smile like that, he could've lived the life of a village sweetheart somewhere in the country. 

“What books do you have in store today?” asks the prostitute — _man_ , Chihiro corrects himself, for the sake of being politer to his customers. “Any sequels to the ones I’ve read, perhaps?”

Chihiro shakes his head, nudging his straw hat upwards. The sun burns bright in his eyes and he grimaces at the stabbing glare. “Nothing new. In case you haven’t noticed, you’re my only customer so I had to concentrate more on selling the ones I have than producing new ones.”

“Really?” asks the prostitute, checking his face curiously. When finding little to no fault with the stony expression set on Chihiro’s face, he heaves a sigh that ripples through the silks on his back. “Your books kept me entertained in my spare time. I would’ve liked to read more.”

Chihiro finds himself unable to answer. Prostitutes are fickle in nature, crafting webbed lies spun from their experienced tongues. They wield coquetry to disarm men, and wore their robes like breastplates to a battlefield. If he hopes to mire Chihiro under his spell, yearning to milk all the coins from his pockets, Chihiro’s got bad news for him: his name only holds the value of twenty yen, and that’s that. 

Yet, the prostitute is undeterred by his strong silence. As they make a quick swoop to the left to avoid the traffic, he casts his shadowy eyes on Chihiro again. 

“What is your name, novelist?”

A name. A name is a necessary ingredient for a spell. Is he beginning his incantations already?

“Mayuzumi,” Chihiro curtly offers, lowering his chin. He avoids gazing into those blue eyes in fear of dissolving into its darkest depths, only staring at the whites of his eyeballs. “So, what’s yours?”

He must have recited something, for when the prostitute parts his sinful lips, Chihiro is forever linked to a name that rings clear of three syllables:

“And I am Kuroko, Mayuzumi-san. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **#4:** _“Which part of ‘I have to sell my books first’ that you don’t understand?” retorts Chihiro, cocking a brow. His waning anger gurgles again, stewing in his heart like a pot that threatens to boil over. The sun burns hotly on his face, on his chest, on his feet. Heat flashes over his skin and eyes. “There’s no point writing more than I can sell. One of these days, I’m going to run out of ink and paper if I continue. Where do you think I’m going to get enough money to restock ‘em?”_
> 
> Thank you for reading and for always positively supporting the fic! Hope you enjoyed the chapter~ :D 


	4. cotton candy clouds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i should probably apologise for how university has taken up most of my time to write, but this is the most that I can make with my spare time. :D Chapter 5 will have a drastic plot device so. /coughs

Kuroko. _Ku_ **ro** ko. The skip of his tongue as he savours the name rolling from his mouth. _Ku_ **ro** ko. He chants it again as the sun dips underneath the shabby roofs. _Ku_ **ro** ko. _Ku_ makes his lips curl to kiss the soft syllable, **ro** lends strength to the delicate structure, and ko polishes the name to what it is. _Ku_ **ro** ko. 

Sakurai fixes him an odd look as he enters with the name on his lips. “Kuroko?” he repeats, bobbing his mushroom head contemplatively. “Ah, you mean those kabuki stagehands? Is it a plot device in your next novel, Mayuzumi-san?”

Oh. So that’s what he is. 

_Ku_ **ro** ko. A mere stagehand trying to play the part of a prostitute, acting his way into Chihiro’s life. _Ku_ **ro** ko. The promiscuous prostitute wielding words for weapons, slicing the defences Chihiro thought he’d put up since he was seven. _Ku_ **ro** ko. The black child graced with beauty, disgraced with envy. _Ku_ **ro** ko.

Chihiro takes his place at his desk, shuffling a few blank pages out from the ream. In his haste, the edge of his sleeve dips into ink and drags all over the scarred wood. He doesn’t care. It’ll wash off. Steadily guided hands try to form the correct kanji for Kuroko, the _Ku_ **ro** ko with the _kanzashi_ in his hair, the _Ku_ **ro** ko with a novel in his hands, the _Ku_ **ro** ko whose balmy fingertips still linger on Chihiro’s palm. 

When the deliriousness of the disease passes him, Chihiro finally holds out the piece to examine. And his eyes crinkle at the disappointing stagger lining the name. He has failed. Failed, utterly failed to capture Kuroko’s essence in two simple kanji. 

_Ku_ **ro** ko. 

* * *

Sunday doesn’t come easily enough, this time around. 

Chihiro is already up even before the rooster crows, washing himself by the communal well down the road. He scrubs ink-worn fingertips until they return to colour, digs out the dirt under his fingernails, tames his unruly bedhead with water, and gargles twice with bamboo salt. At midday, Satsuki sends him off with a frown sitting on her brows, nary a word falling from her mouth upon seeing him in a modest blue hakama. He’s never touched a single blue thing before; the same applies to any red objects. 

He prowls through the same alleyways stinking of sweat and cum, lowering his eyes when he sees flat-chested girls sprawled over the verandas. One of them tosses over in her sleep and her kimono slides over her shoulder, revealing a peaked brown nub with bite marks littered over the small flesh. Chihiro flushes and pulls down his straw hat, muttering things under his breath. 

It’s stupid. Prostitutes suck cocks and spread legs for a living, yet he nitpicks the very image Kuroko carries. With his small lips, he can barely swallow down a radish, much less suck a man’s dick. Maybe he compensates it with his silk soft hands, and his agile kitten tongue? Chihiro knows how talented he is in wagging his tongue, often feeding him bits of praises on his literary works.

Dissociation wages war in his head, separating the prostitute from the man. The man who reads books and spends Sundays visiting him, and the _other_ man who kisses those who pay luxuries to see him. What honour it is for Chihiro to be graced with this prostitute without even needing to pay a single yen. 

He marks his arrival at the central when the storey lady starts selling her wares at a discounted price, her shrieking voice carrying over the dissonant hum of the crowd. In the sea of humans, Chihiro cranes his neck to locate the upturned crate he uses as a makeshift bench, only to stop in his tracks with a lump in his throat.

Perched on the crate Chihiro always sits on, the prostitute is a constellation of colours in his kimono. Another Sunday best, Chihiro figures. He’s never seen anyone pull off heavy purples branching off into stark pinks and glowing ambers on their clothes before; it’s almost magical to see the colours spreading all over him. With his immaculate makeup accentuating the cherry reds on his eyelids, the prostitute bends his neck and nods in his customary greeting. 

The pins in his hair jingle like the summer wind chimes Chihiro hangs over his balcony. 

They emit fragile sounds.

As fragile as he is. 

“You’re late,” the prostitute quips. But his smile feels like something he reserves only for friends outside his line of work. “I’ve been waiting for your shop to open, but the _dango_ lady across the street said you’ll only open when midday burns the hottest.”

The prostitute, the prostitute — the _prostitute_ —

No, he’s not _the_ prostitute anymore, Chihiro firmly reminds himself. He’s got a name. A name is a powerful spell designed to ensnare one’s life, a spell Chihiro had helplessly succumbed to. Try as he might to fight it, when it is a fight that he already lost from the start.

So Chihiro looks at him straight in the eye and fluently recites what he’s been practicing all week long:

“ _Ku_ **ro** ko.”

* * *

“What will be the subject in your next book?”

_Stupid_ , stupid Chihiro squares his jaw and swallows the tightness in his throat. “Dunno. Didn’t think about it yet. Who’s got time to think about what to write when I’ve got to sell all these?”

It’s hot. He’s sweating. It must be the sun. His palms worry the hems of his clothes like he’s some fool who’d never tasted the richness of love on his tongue. Yet he flattens all expressions away from his face and pretends that Kuroko isn’t sitting on his crate—and he certainly didn’t go all the way to the port to grab another one. Who knew the little store would soon be manned by two. 

“Have you ever thought of asking bookstores to take them in?” 

The prostitute—Kuroko’s sock-clad feet dangle in the air as he asks the question, and if Chihiro looks closer, he can see a sliver of pale skin under the heavy brocade. But Chihiro is better than that. He knows he’s better than that. He _will_ resist temptation from the apple of Eden.

“Tried. Never went anywhere,” Chihiro grumbles, averting his eyes. In three quick motions, he turns away, pops his straw hat up, and stared right into the sunlight even if it will blind him. “You know what they all want? They just want someone with a good backing to keep feeding their stores with more books. Self-published novelists don’t go anywhere. You either hit it big or go home.”

Kuroko’s feet dangle lazily from the crate — _his_ crate, devoid of the sky high geta he usually wears. Mayuzumi has the urge to swat them so they’d keep still. “Your life is hard,” says the prostitute— _god damn it, Chihiro, his name is Kuroko_ , the novelist reprimands himself. “Yet you chose to run your own business. The risk you took is high.”

What is he, a sage? Since when do cocksuckers take philosophy classes? Chihiro rolls his eyes and bats off the thought. “Thanks for the reminder. If you’re my only customer, I’m doomed.”

“You’re not doomed, you’re just exaggerating.” Kuroko’s foot taps his and Chihiro jerks out of his sun-struck stupor. “Please have a little bit more faith in yourself to finish what you started.”

He whips his head back to the prostitute, already loading a witty one-liner on the tip of his tongue, but the retort slipped right down his throat. The sun’s glare has gotten into his eyes— _blame it on the sun, sure, why not_ —and now Chihiro’s stuck with an eyeful of Kuroko sparkling radiantly in his getup. The glow of his alabaster skin and the flecks of wealth in his hair, all just radiant. Just so radiant.

Radiant.

Radiant things are like the gold kingfisher hairpins that used to sit on his mother’s dresser, collecting dust. They stain with age. Their values rise and fall over time. No matter how much Chihiro polishes them with his sleeves, they never return to their former glory. Radiant things like Kuroko will stain with age, will have his value rise and fall over time, and will never return to his former glory. No amount of polishing will help. Nobody will polish him either.

Bunching up his sleeves, Chihiro pulls away from the radiant creature and glowers. “Never said anything about quitting, so stop jumping to your own damn conclusions.”

Oops. Maybe he shouldn’t have said that. Now Kuroko’s giving him a look that suggests he’d like to connect his fist to Chihiro’s stomach. 

With a strangled little groan in his throat, and maybe a bit of tight-jawed expression, Chihiro sets things straight. “My bad. Was thinking of something that kind of got me angry.”

“Apology accepted.” The quality of his voice is as soft as silk he wears, but strangely, Chihiro still picks out the underlying sternness amongst the jarring calls of the street. “Instead of directing your anger at me, maybe you should use that intense emotion of yours to write another book.”

“Which part of ‘I have to sell my books first’ that you don’t understand?” retorts Chihiro, cocking a brow. His waning anger gurgles again, stewing in his heart like a pot that threatens to boil over. The sun burns hotly on his face, on his chest, on his feet. Heat flashes over his skin and eyes. “There’s no point writing more than I can sell. One of these days, I’m going to run out of ink and paper if I continue. Where do you think I’m going to get enough money to restock ‘em?”

Kuroko’s verdict comes with a fetching smile and eyes, clear blue eyes like a seeress who reads far into the future in Chihiro’s palm. “You have great potential, Mayuzumi-san. You write what others don’t. They play safely by the rules, but you spark controversial truths. You may think that your audience is limited, but in reality, your market is wider than these streets and its vendors.”

The beginnings of something whirled between them. A spell of fate, chanted by a sinful figure of a prostitute, and certainly not a shrine maiden. 

“You’re suggesting I move somewhere else to sell my books?” Realisation dawns upon Chihiro. His words provoke a sedate nod from the prostitute, smiling his agreement. “That’s what you think I should do?”

“Yes. You’ll go further than this.”

Intelligent, beautiful, and empowering things like Kuroko are poisonous. They cloud your judgment with their carefully worded arguments to win you over, they charm you with a quirk of their painted lips, they feed you lies about how great you are. When ego consumes you wholly, you will start to lose all sense of reasoning. You start thinking you can conquer him and his beauty, conquer the environment and its people, and in turn, conquer the world and its assets. 

Their agenda is to use him to ascend the staircase of luxury. 

He knows. Chihiro knows it all.

But man is powerless when pitted against temptation. No man is great enough to resist the tempting call of wealth, and certainly not Chihiro when he’s only got ¥20 to his name. Without Kuroko acting as his enabler, he might be reduced to a homeless man wandering the streets for a mouthful of congee. It’s high time for him to take action. 

Chihiro needs not breathe another word to know that Kuroko understood him the moment he raised his chin. There is no exchange of gratitudes. There is no need for it either. It is a dog-eat-dog world; any form of help is a private blessing for Chihiro. If Kuroko sees benefit in leading Chihiro by the hand, then Chihiro will not be the fool who denies the touch. After all, they are both filthy mongrels of the underworld, living in the society built by the riches of the foreign expats.

“It looks like it’ll be a fine weather today,” Kuroko comments, gazing at the translucent skies devoid of clouds. “It will be good business for you.”

Chihiro stares at his display of novels collecting dust on the ground. They remain untouched. What nonsense the prostitute spews, trying to comfort him with blatant lies. Still, Chihiro humours him with a chuckle at the irony of it all. He looks towards the skies after finding traces of a smile on Kuroko’s lips. 

“It sure is.”

Camaraderie formed between a prostitute and a novelist is a straw house built on the edge of the cliff. And one puff from the winds of destiny might collapse its foundation. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **#5:** _A prostitute like Kuroko could sell his hairpins too, if he’s desperate enough to bring change to his life, if he wanted to get away from it all. Yet, Kuroko shows no resentment with his profession. He’s never talked about himself whenever he comes around, only making Chihiro the favoured subject of his tongue. Previous efforts in getting Kuroko to reveal his background have all been thwarted, expertly manoeuvred right into Chihiro’s backyard again. Years of experience must’ve taught him that prostitutes need to retain their air of mystery and elegance lest the magic falls apart._  
>   
>  Thank you for reading! *u* If you're celebrating Christmas, I hope you'll have a good Christmas ahead of you!


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